


don't let me be lonely

by Solanaceae



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 09:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16992543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/pseuds/Solanaceae
Summary: A winter day in Brethil.





	don't let me be lonely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> hope you enjoy, dearest! <3

 

Winter came softly to Brethil, a steady creeping chill permeating the air that came with the wind that sent the dead leaves drifting. The cold fascinated Niënor—she loved the way the breeze felt like fingers lifting her hair from the back of her neck, the way her skin shivered into goosebumps when she stayed out too long, the ache when her teeth chattered. 

Her memories were still fleeting things, scraps of mist that dissipated when she reached for them. At first, it had distressed her, the uncertainty and vagueness, but she was slowly layering new memories over the void like cloth, each individual piece thin and delicate, but together making a warm blanket she could retreat into when the night grew dark.

Finduilas and Nellas said it was all part of the healing. That some wounds never truly disappeared, but that scars could be softened. 

(They had wounds, too—on their bodies and in their minds. The wide, dark scar on Finduilas’ stomach where she didn’t like to be touched, the way Nellas looked at both of them like she thought they might disappear when she closed her eyes. Niënor didn’t understand why. It was the thing that frustrated her most, not knowing enough to help them.) 

She took long walks in the forest that first winter, boots crunching through the thin layer of ice over the snow that eventually fell, breath fogging silver in front of her as she went. She knew she was not alone—Nellas was near-silent, but Niënor caught glimpses of her amid the leafless branches, watching over her. She didn’t mind. It made her feel safe.

The days shortened, blurring into each other. It was late afternoon, and she found a stand of holly, its dark green a startling sight against the snow, its berries like red jewels scattered amid the glossy leaves.

Niënor knelt in the snow, running her fingers along the thin branches, testing the way they bent, thinking. Then she drew a small knife from her boot—Finduilas insisted she have  _ something _ to defend herself with, if it came to that—and began clipping lengths of holly off the bush. When she had enough, she took the branches and began to plait them together, weaving stems and rearranging leaves until she had three circlets. They were clumsy things, slightly misshapen, but when she placed one on her own head, it held together. 

“Nellas,” she called. “Come down.”

A soft noise from above, and then Nellas landed in a crouch in the snow nearby. Straightening, she said, “Those are lovely.”

Niënor laughed. “They will do.” She beckoned Nellas closer. Nellas knelt beside her, bending her head to let Niënor place one of the circlets there. The spiked edges of the holly leaves caught on dark strands, and Niënor let her hands linger, fingers brushing Nellas’ sleek hair. 

“Nightfall is coming,” Nellas said, her brown eyes fixed on Niënor’s. “Finduilas will wonder where we are.”

“And we must deliver this one to her, besides,” Niënor replied, holding up the third circlet. Nellas’ lips twitched into a smile. Niënor  _ liked _ making her smile; Nellas had a tendency to be so solemn sometimes. 

They made their way back, Niënor’s footsteps loud in contrast to the way Nellas seemed to glide over the snow. By the time they reached their small house, the shadows were lengthening, the clouds on the western horizon painted into streaks of orange and pink by the setting sun.

Finduilas was waiting for them in the doorway, and smiled when she saw them. “Niënor. Nellas.” The way she said their names made Niënor’s chest feel pleasantly tight. “You’ve returned at the perfect time. I made tea.”

Niënor crunched across the snow-covered garden, held up the holly crown. 

“You made this for me?” Finduilas’ smile widened. 

“One for each of us,” Niënor said, touching the one on her own head. 

Finduilas did not have to bow her head to let Niënor put it on; Niënor was tall for her race, even if Nellas was even taller. The crown settled around Finduilas’ head, resting gently against her ears, and Nellas had told her that Finduilas had been royalty, once—she believed it now, seeing the way even this simple, hand-made circlet seemed to add a regal air.  

She was staring, she realized, and tore her eyes away.

“Come,” Finduilas said warmly, taking her hand and leading her inside. 

The three of them curled up amid the blankets and cushions in a side room (more comfortable than sitting at a table—it had been Nellas’ idea, and how she had furnished her old home in the forest of Doriath). The tea Finduilas made tasted of warm spice and something fruity. 

Niënor ended up leaning against Finduilas, Finduilas’ arms around her shoulders. Nellas sat with her thigh touching Niënor’s, letting Niënor braid her long hair. Everything felt warm and glowing, not just from the candlelight, but from something inside Niënor, something like the summer sun. 

Nellas and Finduilas had been teaching her everything she had forgotten—words for plants and furniture and emotions. Niënor was certain that this warmth was  _ happiness _ , because she felt it in moments like this, where the boundaries between her and Finduilas and Nellas blurred and the dark spikes of fear melted away completely. 

Niënor wanted something, suddenly, but couldn’t find the words for it. Something about being close, being so close that there was nothing else. But that made little sense in her head, and would make even less if she tried to explain it. 

She realized her fingers had stilled in Nellas’ hair when Nellas turned to her. 

“Is all well?” Nellas asked.

Niënor must have hesitated just long enough, because Nellas took her hands, a worried expression on her face. 

“Nothing is wrong,” Niënor said hastily. 

“Is something not right, then?” Finduilas asked, voice gentle.

“I just—” Niënor gestured helplessly. “I feel—like I want something. Like I want to be with you, except I’m already with you, so it doesn’t make any  _ sense _ —”    

“May I kiss you?” Nellas asked abruptly. Niënor was startled enough that the words died in her mouth. 

“What?”

“I think… I just want to see—if you don’t like it, just tell me.”

Niënor nodded. 

Nellas leaned in, pressed their lips together. Hers were warm and tasted faintly of the tea’s spice. When she pulled away, Niënor found she was trembling. Finduilas’ arms around her tightened slightly, steadying her wordlessly.

This, she realized, was what she had been wanting. 

“Was that good?” Finduilas asked into the silence.

“Yes. But I don’t know how to do this,” Niënor said, meaning both the kiss and the warm yearning in Nellas’ eyes. 

“You don’t need to know,” Finduilas murmured into her ear. 

Nellas nodded. “We will help you.”


End file.
